


Fine

by hippocrates460



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Celestial Odd Godparents, Demon!Aziraphale, Everyone is extremely loved, M/M, Post-Canon, Warlock is a lucky one, we're on our own side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 19:50:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: “I jumped,” Aziraphale says. Unrepentant as the day he did it, fiercely on Crowley’s side through the bitter end.





	Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lilian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilian/gifts).

> Not to be faux deep but this title is from a song I like a lot called [We Are Fine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZkwbBZzM6ZE).   
Lil baby this was supposed to be for your birthday but then life got in the way as you well know. You are amazing and I can't believe it's been a year and a half in two days bc how did I get on before? Thank you for your help and support on all fronts.

“And how did you become a demon?” Warlock asks, once the whole story of the apocalypse-that-wasn’t has come out. He’s old now, well-loved by his mother and her new wife until it had been time for them, as well as his demonic godparents. Time has been kind in some ways, and not at all in others. The hospital bed that makes him look small is enough evidence of that.

Aziraphale resettles himself on the covers, sitting cross-legged by Warlock’s feet, and Crowley looks on from the chair. Warlock’s breathing is laboured, but they hope he will fight this infection as he did the last one, that it won’t be long before he can be home. His hair looks whiter against the pillowcase, somehow, and the fever makes his papery skin shine.

Aziraphale, who refused to take a new name, refused to forget what Crowley had tried so hard to banish to a never-seen-again corner of his mind, clears his throat. “I wasn’t always one,” he says.

Warlock shrugs, “I understand none of you were.” He knows better than to take the Bible as, well, the word of God.

“No,” Aziraphale admits. “But this one,” he nods to Crowley, a fond familiar smile on his face, “claims he just ‘sauntered vaguely downwards’. Most of us fell.”

“And you?” Warlock urges, trying to breathe through the heaviness in his lungs.

“I jumped,” Aziraphale says. Unrepentant as the day he did it, fiercely on Crowley’s side through the bitter end. Crowley remembers the pain of having his wings break, as if on their own, the feeling of falling, the way his wings healed wrong on the way down, the way they wouldn’t support him anymore. He also remembers the sickening crash of Aziraphale hitting the floor at his feet. “Angel,” he’d begged, willing Aziraphale back to him.

“Wasn’t sure it’d work if I flew any part of the way,” were the first words out of his dear prim mouth when he sat back up. His hair still soft and golden, his clothes black with soot that Crowley quickly miracles away. “Thank you, my dear boy,” Aziraphale smiles at him, as if that is what matters right now.

“If what would work?” Crowley had croaked, checking Aziraphale’s wings for breaks with wild fluttering hands. Aziraphale looks brave more than hurt, and his eyes flare dangerously when he looks at Crowley’s shackled feet.

Warlock coughs. “Wait.” He coughs again. “You chose to be a demon?” He manages finally, incredulity making his voice rise.

“For him,” Aziraphale tells Warlock, but he’s not looking at Warlock. Nothing much had changed about him, after he fell. (“Although I do feel that my teeth are a bit sharper” “yes angel” “not anymore”)

“Frankly,” Crowley pipes up, joining the conversation to get out from that look on Aziraphale’s face, the one that hurts his stomach and makes him feel weepy all over. “I’m not entirely sure it worked. Nothing changed, did it, and it’s not like there’s an induction package for fallen angels.”

“Oh it worked,” Aziraphale says, and his teeth do look a bit sharper when he grins.

“When did all this happen?” Warlock asks, later, when his oldest daughter has come and gone, and the nurses have him settled for the night. The only noise left is from the humming of the lights and the machines checking on Warlock’s ageing heart. Crowley heard the question he means to ask and looks at Aziraphale.

“When you were thirteen, darling,” Aziraphale says, with a little pat to Warlock’s hand. “But do rest now, you’ve had a long day.”

Warlock obeys, but Crowley is left with a question niggling at the back of his brain. An unpleasant tingling sort of sensation. He kisses Warlock goodnight as he’s done for decades now, some gaps between childhood and hospital stays, but always the same way. Then he tucks him in. _Sweet dreams, _he forces out, somewhere between a whisper and a miracle. He feels Aziraphale stare at him while he does it.

“How do you know?” Crowley asks, walking close enough that they touch occasionally. Aziraphale laughs.

“How do _you_ know you’re a demon?” He asks, as if that should be obvious. As if Crowley remembers the before and after at all, as if the only thing that comes to his mind when he remembers being an angel isn’t the time he borrowed the skin of one and was spat on in heaven. As if his overriding emotion isn’t the sensation of some part of his immutable eternal self having been left far behind, and the smell of brimstone.

“I don’t,” Crowley answers, and it stuns Aziraphale into silence. It’s true they don’t talk of these things much. Never quite enough time between dancing, and music, and a great many dinners. “There’s some dead give-aways of course,” he tries to joke, and he gets a patented angelic pity smile for his efforts. “Angel,” he starts, because habits of a great many lifetimes die hard. “Aziraphale,” he tries. “Thank you.” For sticking by me, for not letting hell keep me, for not letting heaven demand me for damage reimbursement. For choosing our side, in the end. Aziraphale takes his hand and squeezes. Their fingers intertwine. Their steps line up. Synchronize.


End file.
